Seven years ago, my oldest daughter wanted a little pet. An inside cat was out of the question. So was a dog. At least until I had a momentary lapse of sanity.
We went to a flea market to look around. If I’d known how things were about to play out, I would’ve walked right by the old woman sitting under a shade tree selling puppies.
She was selling little breeds. Without hesitation, all four daughters zeroed in like heat seeking missiles to a cage with four puppies, half Chihuahua, half Japanese Chin.
Half Chihuahuas! God made Chihuahuas as a practical joke on rats. They’re noisy, obnoxious, cranky little animals that on their best day look genetically defective.
These, however, looked like the furry Japanese Chin part. Before I knew it, the heat seeking missiles exploded. Shawnna was holding the runt of the litter, all nine weeks old, in the palm of her hand talking to it like it was a little baby.
I’m convinced now the old lady selling them set the hook right then. I just didn’t know it right then. Continue reading Flea Market Flea Bag
I had a car full — all four daughters and wondering wonder why I never remembered ear plugs for a road trip.
There was a noise lull, which is usually a sign something’s about to happen. I was obliviously enjoying the semi-peaceful, kinda quiet moment, when a screeching, high-pitched voice shrieks, “Yella one!!!” Then she hit me in the arm, frogged me right in the muscle!
Being the strong, hard as a rock muscles, manly man that I am, I whimpered, “Ouuuuuuch!”
Wincing in pain I rubbed the muscle while bent over the steering wheel like an assignation victim.
“What did ya do that for!?” Continue reading Yella One!
Two of the worst nights of the year are Homecoming and Prom, and Saturday night was Prom. Some people may think that’s an odd thing to say, but to dads of teenage daughters, they get it in spades.
It’s just a snapshot of the future, way, way off in the future hopefully, when a dad has to walk his daughter down the aisle. They’ll be radiant in white flowing gowns, smiling all the way, but the dad walks beside them white faced, grimacing, needing Pepto-Bismol and anti-depressants!
A daughter’s “happiest day ever” is like the most dreaded day to most dads. It’s like taking a rare, precious, porcelain doll worth millions of dollars and handing it over to a gorilla! Continue reading Homecoming and Prom
It’s pretty much the same every time. “Daddy, there’s a boy I want you to meet. Can he come over?” It starts with a 30 to 40 minute interrogation about who he is, who are his friends, where’s he go, how do you know him, what do his parents do, does he have a prison record, etc. I usually get his height and weight too, just in case I have to dig a shallow grave in the woods.
If he makes it through that hurdle, then I’ll get, “Well, Daddy” – blink, blink and a puppy dog expression – “Can he come over?” I put my hand on my forehead, not to be dramatic, but because a major headache is setting in, and I blurt out a foolish, half hearted, “Ahhhh! Yeeeees. He can come over.” And with that, another one of Beelzebub’s workers has an appointment to “hang out” with one of my daughters. Continue reading Beelzebub’s Workers